Questionable Edibles
by The Odd Little Turtle
Summary: Drabbles from the cast of The Warrior with No Name that didn't fit anywhere in the story... AU Illyana and Piotr
1. The Magical Meal

Questionable Edibles

By The Odd Little Turtle Named Froggie

(This doesn't really fit in with my AU X-men fanfic _The Warrior with No Name_, but the characters are AU from that story. I'm thinking it may have taken place before the crunchy chicken noodle soup episode.

And I just _had_ to. Wanted some laughs. Did I succeed?

Characters are owned by Marvel.)

#

Illyana Nikolievna Rasputina stared at the bowl of whitish mush, wrinkling her stubbed nose, flaxen eyebrows furrowing. The tinge of yellow worried her. Her brother's latest, ah, creation reminded her of melting yellow snow.

"'Never eat yellow snow,'" she murmured, eying it distrustfully and then the red-brown box from whence it came. With good reason, she thought. The bowl was hot to the touch having just come from the microwave, a great deal of steam emanating from the mush. With _great_ reason, she mentally corrected, her black-tinted mouth thinning in displeasure.

Her elder brother, Piotr Nikoleivitch Rasputin, confirmed bachelor (and all-around stomach irritation), stood opposite her, towering six and a half feet tall, a white apron stretched across his broad chest, the bowl in question in his large oven-mitted hand. The distance between Illyana and aforementioned irritation was only the rectangular stainless steel-topped island of his Bronx apartment's kitchen. He hummed absently as he stirred the concoction with the wooden spoon.

"Your face will stay like that if you aren't careful, Little Snowflake," Piotr told his sister, amusement softening his features.

Illyana blew her golden bangs from her face absently wishing he'd let her dye her hair black. "The better choice, I'm sure," she told him, kohl-ringed blue eyes once again zeroing in on whatever was steaming in the bowl, becoming more and more dismayed as he slopped a drippy ivory-colored spoonful onto her plate. It didn't even make a mound of goo, just sloshed onto her questionably-colored meat and began to ooze itself around the outer edges of the dish.

"I have gravy," he said, helping himself to several spoonfuls. He held up a packet that read 'Excellent Savings Turkey Giblet Gravy' with a smile. His smile faded when his teenaged sister shook her blonde-haired head belligerently, her golden locks cascading about like an eel's upper and lower fins. "I won't burn it this time," he promised. Still she shook her head violently, and he dropped the subject and put the packet back on the counter behind him.

"What is this stuff?" she finally asked, poking it with her fork, wondered why he hadn't yet broke out the spoons.

He had the audacity to look hurt. "Buttered Potato Flakes."

"Potato…Flakes?"

"Da." He nodded, indicated the red-brown box with his fork as he sat on a black leather stool. "Just as the box says. Mashed potatoes."

Narrowing her azure eyes, Illyana clicked her tongue, crossed her arms reproachfully and lifted a delicate brow, effectively giving him "the look" that most women had perfected by the time they married. "Piotr Nikoleivitch," she stated in a tone one would take if explaining something to a small child, "if these are mashed potatoes, then a horde of pink weasels are going to take over the world."

#

(If no one laughs, I'll be very disappointed.)


	2. Golden Brown?

Questionable Edibles

By The Odd Little Turtle

(Marvel owns them. "Not I," said the fly.

These little things keep popping in my head. On an Illyana and Piotr kick, I guess. I'm supposed to be rejuvenating the basement today. Ah well. Enjoy!

Characters are the same from the last drabble.)

#

Having been in her brother's care since she was eleven, Illyana was used to American food. Mama had taught her how make simple meals, but coming to America gave way to new avenues of tastes (not to mention sights and smells) as America was a conglomeration of different cultures. For example, Illyana's current favorite place was the take-out Cantonese restaurant just down the street that served the best spaghetti she'd tasted. Having stowed away on the Blackbird for a mission or two to Italy, Illyana was pretty sure she knew what real spaghetti was supposed to taste like. But she preferred the sauce at Mu Wing's Cantonese and American Cuisine Buffet and Take Out.

But I digress. She wasn't craving spaghetti. She missed Mama's cooking.

It was times like this that Illyana felt very homesick. The blonde little Russian sat at the kitchen island on one of the black leather stools, pajama-clad legs dangling. Her pointed chin rested in one palm, the index finger of her other hand sticking to the surface of the stainless steel top as she traced lazy circles. Piotr set her breakfast plate in front of her. She hefted a flaxen brow at the burned toast.

_Really_ missed Mama's cooking.

She wrinkled her nose and looked up at her elder brother, their matching blue eyes meeting, hers narrowing dangerously. "Toast is supposed to be golden brown," she told him. Holding his eyes for a moment longer, she then looked down, poked the offending food—no, not food, she thought, food was supposed to be edible—with her butter knife. "What's the toaster's setting?" She poked the blackened toast again.

Piotr gave an exasperated sigh and snatched the plate back. Why did she have to be so picky? He was doing the best he could. It wasn't like he had broken the toaster purposely. The setting switch had just snapped off one day. Stupid, cheap toaster.

Using a knife, he scraped the toast over the sink until the black was gone, and it was, ah, sort of golden. It was striped with brown. Close enough. He put the newly appointed golden brown toast back on her plate and set it down with flourish.

Illyana pushed the plate away with a dainty pointed finger.

"If you don't eat, you'll grow up little," he told her irritated with her behavior, retrieving his own crispy toast and adding it to his plate.

"Little is preferable," she told him. Using her butter knife, she flipped the toast over. Black on that side too. "Isn't this some form of child abuse?"

He grunted. To Illyana's horror, he smeared his piece with grape jam.

Took a bite.

Looked a little green afterwards.

"Breakfast Buffet?" he queried.

No argument there. "Da. And Smarty-Mart. You're getting a new toaster."

#


End file.
